The morning light was cold and thin, carrying a quiet loneliness that faintly hinted summer's end.
Dust rolled along the kingsroad. First came dozens of knights at a gallop, then two neat columns of infantry in bright armor.
Above them fluttered the direwolf banner of House Stark—gray on white.
A mounted lord rode at the head. Long brown hair flew in the wind. A few white strands showed in his neatly trimmed beard; he looked far older than his true thirty-five years. His black armor carried a chilling, deathly severity—like the Stranger made flesh.
It was the Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North—Lord Eddard Stark.
Behind him rumbled a prison wagon. Inside the wooden cage was a condemned man, shackled fast. His hair hung in a filthy tangle, and he looked half-unconscious.
The smallfolk who had come for the spectacle trailed behind in a noisy swarm—more than a thousand of them.
The Stark boys were there to watch as well: the bastard Jon Snow, the ward Theon Greyjoy… and Domeric too, astride a tall warhorse.
Domeric truly could not understand it. The moment the Lord of the North returned, before he even stepped back into the castle, he was going to take a man's head. Did he have some peculiar habit?
The procession halted on a leveled patch of wasteland.
At an order, the soldiers hacked apart the nailed wooden stocks of the prison wagon and dragged the prisoner out, forcing him to kneel at the edge of the clearing.
Lord Eddard dismounted and climbed to higher ground. He drew a greatsword meant for two hands—its name was Ice.
The ancestral sword of House Stark. Its blade was broader than a man's palm, and if stood upright it was taller than a man.
Ice was forged of Valyrian steel, and strengthened by old magic, its color dark as black smoke.
Nothing in the world was sharper than Valyrian steel.
Lord Eddard removed his gloves and handed them to the captain of his guard.
He lifted the sword in both hands and proclaimed in a clear voice:
"In the name of Robert of House Baratheon, First of His Name—King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm—I, Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, hereby sentence you to death!"
When he finished, Eddard raised the greatsword high overhead.
The blade fell.
The condemned man's head was severed. Blood splashed across the snow, red as fallen blossoms.
Cheers rose from the crowd. Domeric frowned slightly.
Robb rode over. "He was a deserter—he broke the Night's Watch vows. Father says there are no men more dangerous than deserters, because they know that if they're caught there's only one end for them. So they let evil overrun their fear, and there's no crime they won't dare."
"So that's it."
Domeric nodded, wearing an expression of complete "understanding," as he casually plucked half a hair from Robb's shoulder.
It was Lord Eddard's hair. It had fallen there earlier, when father and son embraced.
In the "Secret-Digging System," hair counted as part of the skin. Otherwise, if Domeric wanted to collect a target's panel without alerting them, he would be reduced to gathering dandruff and heel-skin—an image too horrifying to contemplate.
[Secret-Digging System triggered!]
Before Domeric's eyes, lines of blocky text appeared from nowhere:
Eddard Stark
Identity: Lord of Winterfell; Lord Paramount of the North; Warden of the North; King Robert's good brother;
Title: Wolf Lord
Strength: 60
Agility: 65
Spirit: 40
Combat Index: 1656
Note: None. Target is experiencing no fear; unable to窥探 his secrets.
For a man who had once killed the Sword of the Morning, Lord Eddard's combat index of 165 was no surprise.
But the last time Domeric had seen him, Eddard's combat index had been 170. It seemed that with age, Lord Eddard was steadily declining.
Domeric was soon summoned to see Lord Eddard.
The place of the summons was the godswood.
At the grove's center stood an ancient weirwood, looming over a pool of black, cold water. Northerners called it the heart tree.
A face had been carved into its trunk—long, somber, and mournful.
The old tales said such faces were carved in the Dawn Age, before the First Men crossed the Narrow Sea, by the children of the forest.
Lord Eddard sat quietly on a moss-covered boulder. Ice lay slantwise across his knees, and he was washing blood from the blade in the pool's water—black as endless night.
"Lord Eddard," Domeric said, one hand to his chest, bowing slightly. "Domeric of House Bolton greets you."
"Dommy—you've come," Eddard's tone was solemn and distant. "How long has it been since we last met? Half a year? Longer?"
"About nine months."
"So it has been nine full months. Did you watch the execution this morning?"
"I did. You remain formidable, my lord—your sword stroke was as keen as ever," Domeric said, offering the proper measure of praise.
"Then tell me—why do you think I carry out the execution myself?"
"To display a lord's authority. In his own lands, only the lord may pronounce another man's death."
"That is part of it," Eddard said. "More important is this: the blood of the First Men runs in the houses of the North, and we must keep the old ways. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.
If you would take a man's life, you should at least look into his eyes and hear his last words.
If you cannot do that, then perhaps his crime was not worthy of death."
Then Eddard continued, earnest and grave:
"Dommy—one day you will inherit the Dreadfort from your father and become the next Lord Bolton, ruling your own lands. When that day comes, you must hold the law.
You must never kill for pleasure, nor may you flee responsibility.
When a ruler hides behind others and pays an executioner to do his killing, he soon forgets what death truly is."
"Thank you for your guidance," Domeric said respectfully.
"Now—another matter." Lord Eddard's eyes sharpened. "Jeor Mormont, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, wrote to say that half a year ago you led men to aid the Watch against wildlings beyond the Wall. Is that true?"
North of the Wall was a place every northerner avoided.
It was wildling country. For thousands of years, men of Westeros had almost forgotten it.
To most, the wildlings were savage by nature—outlaws who enslaved, murdered, and burned. They were said to consort with giants and shadowcats, to steal maidens in the night, to drink blood from polished horns; and their women, it was whispered, lay with White Walkers in the Long Night, birthing half-man, half-wraith horrors.
Domeric smiled awkwardly. He had no intention of confessing the truth—that he had gone beyond the Wall to capture wildlings in large numbers to expand his labor force.
And what was Mormont's purpose in writing such a letter to Lord Eddard?
Had they not already reached a mutually beneficial arrangement?
That old bear would need a proper reminder when Domeric returned.
"The Bolton lands lie close to the Night's Watch at Castle Black," Domeric said quickly, his mind turning. "The safety of the Wall is a responsibility shared by every noble."
Eddard gave him a look of approval. "I'm glad to hear you say it. Mormont writes that the Watch now has fewer than a thousand men—not only because of deserters. Their ranging parties have suffered heavy losses as well."
"Has it become that bad?"
The last time Domeric went beyond the Wall, the Watch's situation had looked excellent. Poorly equipped wildlings had posed no real threat.
"I fear it will only worsen," Eddard said, lifting the sword in his hands. "If the situation continues to deteriorate, we may have no choice but to march north and settle matters with the wildlings beyond the Wall by steel."
"If that day comes, I will gladly serve you," Domeric said at once, pledging loyalty.
"But there is a more immediate matter." Eddard Stark studied Domeric for a long moment.
At last he spoke. "What, precisely, has happened between you and House Karstark?"
So—after all the circling, the true subject had arrived.
Domeric produced a sheet of parchment at once.
He had obtained it from the woman assassin Benita—
A contract proving House Karstark had hired a killer.
It was also Benita's pledge of entry. An assassin who had betrayed her employer's identity could hardly expect the House of Black and White in Braavos to ever take her back.
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🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort
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